Shattered
by RedWheeler
Summary: They just needed someone to put them back together. MaxxMariam Oneshot.


**Note: **Absolutely thrilled to have finally finished this off, I've been trying to write this for two years, but it never came out right. I adore this pairing! So to be able to publish something about them _finally_ is a great accomplishment. Anyways, enjoy!

**Summary**: They just needed someone to put them back together.

**Pairing**: Max/Mariam. Blatant hinting anyways….

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Beyblade.

Shattered

It's a weird way to go back, he understood that. And it was at such a strange time, where thoughts surfaced and took him by surprise. A welcomed one at the least, coming out of a dull period where no one or anything needed to be saved. It actually felt nice to be normal, to have the space to think like everyone else.

But he knew if his friends could see him now they would laugh. At the dead of night walking by his lonesome, hands in his pockets, wind thrusting his orange jacket against him as it tosses his blond hair into his freckled face; all in a place that had escaped him for years, two to be exact… back when things were hectic.

Now though, now the muscles for him to smile are pulled thinly, sadness is worn on his lips. And his feet are dragged on the dusty ground, suddenly heavy with memories and forcing him to take them in.

Everything looked like a disaster zone; metal twisted and toppled on its side while it slowly rusted through rainy days, stone walls broken like mere toy blocks laid carelessly in remains, and in the distance in all of its glory was a rock tied with expertise around the axle of a Ferris wheel.

Abandoned amusement parks, that's what it came to. For memories to thrive, all in the name of the forgotten.

He seriously wondered if he was the only one; to let _them_ slip from his mind the moment they were gone, to focus on the now instead of the then only to feel guilt. He was obviously the only one to take it to this extent.

Not that he minded that he was by himself, once in a while Max appreciated solitude. Just, the thoughts that captured his interest had taken him off guard. And here he was, of all places.

Leaving chaos, he entered destruction. Wooden buildings managed to stand on both sides of the lone street, and tumbleweeds pushed past slowly in the company of the wind. Compared to collapsed roller coasters and a broken castle, the old west merely looked like it passed its age and a few kids took it for some fun.

Maybe they had been the only ones that day.

It felt different this time around, everything accented in the moonlight. It felt eerie, like he was supposed to be scared; doors squeaked on their hinges and crickets chirped in desolate harmony. He found it comforting, like closure; he had been scared last time.

He could take losing, but when it came to losing someone special it was a whole other matter. And that thought had stuck in his throat uncomfortably that day, making him want to choke, to give in. He didn't want to lose a friend.

So he fought for the both of them.

Maybe he had won the battle, that didn't necessarily change anything. Their field was worn, he noticed more as he climbed steps up to the joined porches, yet undamaged like the others. The foundation wasn't torn down, redesigned from a new perspective… they didn't need that.

They didn't need change.

His weight caused the floorboards to creak as he moved, his footfalls deafening crickets. Pale skin traced sandy railings as he walked, staring into the details of the buildings. And it isn't until his fingers grip a support beam carefully that he stopped. His gaze caught sight of glass littered around a broken window; Max knew exactly where he was.

He was reluctant, but he left the safety of the beam behind so he could approach the doors. The saloon is the worse off, and as his hand grazed one of the wooden doors a hinge collapsed from the pressure. It made him jump and take a step back; now hanging by its last rusted resort, it squeaked while it swayed.

Nonetheless, he pushed through the other door that was still intact. And as he let go, it swung behind, moonlight washed the room for mere seconds before disappearing; reappearing to vanish. It was much darker now, possibly colder while he drew his jacket near, but that's fine with him.

He could see as clear as day.

Frustration isn't a beautiful sight; it's discarded tables that were thrown to the ground, it's a whirlwind of restless papers pushed against walls blindly, and it's simply not understanding. He can see it all perfectly.

And it made him uncomfortable, standing in silence within a room full of rage. It felt bitter, an aftertaste of something he couldn't help but see as gone wrong. Everything was virtually torn apart, all in an attempt to convince the other of their misunderstandings.

Taking a deep breath of stale air, Max walked forward, the sound of his shoes against the floor echoing with every heavy step. His fingers trail across a circular table that's on its side, and he contemplated picking it up to fix the damage.

He decided against it, the wood was engraved with markings. Scratches of variance decorated the face, embedded with their confusion and foretold hatred. Restoring the balance wouldn't change anything, they would always be enemies.

But it's when his gaze hit the floor that something winks at him, a speck not far away that has been hit by the moonlight. And it lead slowly to another, and then to another, until he followed them around the bar. Looking behind, he is captured by a sea of broken glass.

It was indescribable, how the moonlight reflected off the shards, ebbing further away as he stepped around the counter. Carefully, Max lowered himself to the ground, taking in the scene.

For a moment of silence, he just stared. Watching the glass with a lapse of captivated interest, he found himself enthralled. But his mind pushed him forward not understanding the fascination, and he placed his fingers carefully around the edges of a small piece of broken bottle before picking it up.

He let it fall to the palm of his open hand, the shadows cast from his fingers interfering with the mirror-like reflection. He's aware that this _should_ mean nothing to him, but it doesn't – these shards, they're everything. And finally it dawned on him….

It's her.

Bad reputation. Known for having an edge capable of slicing through him if he made the wrong move. The single impact would mean nothing, a warning to stay back, to stay away.

Dangerous. Seemingly harmless under its front, but definitely lethal. Catching him off guard, surprising him with unexpected jabs. He would flinch; learn to be wary and anxious of another chance encounter. Because they were never quite the same, inflicting him on different levels.

Sharp. Underestimated at least, appearing weak and fragile to those who overlook the appeal; but he knew better, with the right blow, it's deadly. And he never second guesses this, having been nicked time and time again for his foolishness.

Rough. What made him cringe, what made the edges pointed. A group now broken, lined with similar patterns designed to leave an impression. Their purpose, their _mission_, curved rigidly, raising a shield – to defend, to protect.

Hazardous. Ruthless. Salient. Brittle. Precarious.

But Max knew that was only one side.

He saw something else, something that was overpowered and put aside. It was what kept him enthralled, captivated and at awe. Somehow, nobody else noticed these other qualities – these alluring lapses – they faded in and out of existence.

Smooth. The forgotten face; although defined by razor edges, there is a gentle side. And it's enough to startle, to realize its very mean wasn't to tear him apart. That a single piece didn't want to cause harm, and its surface made up for that; like an afterthought, an apology.

Solid. Breaking away from the group had caused a few scratches of its own, not that they would ever show. They were well hidden, concealed away so that no one would ever see weakness, but power and dominance.

Secure. Strong enough on its own to handle _inconveniences_ away from the group. No mould was needed to keep the threat alive; it lied within every deadly curve.

Redemption. It never really mattered how many times Max had been cut, nicked at with every petty mistake, because he always came back. His hand was always outstretched, open; and there were times that he didn't feel a bitter edge, stinging rejection. He felt that smooth surface instead, when nobody else could.

Soft. Direct. Lucid. Enduring. Forgiving.

It's all her.

He closed his hand, palming the shard carefully into his warm grasp. Time has passed, and wading through this sea had made Max realize there's no way to piece things back together. It wouldn't amount to anything, everything is different now.

Maybe they did need change.

To be broken, taken apart. Shattered. To acknowledge they're different people now; that they both have two sides lined with rough edges.

Sighing, Max slowly rose from his spot in midst of the moonlight washed glass, pocketing the sole shard, wanting to keep a piece of her. His footfalls aren't heavy anymore, sounding at ease as he makes his way around the bar, but they come to an abrupt stop. The table is still on its side, and without hesitation he lifts it up.

Because they're friends now.

They just needed someone to put them back together.


End file.
